


/enko girl

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: A Clockwork Orange (1971), A Clockwork Orange - All Media Types
Genre: Belts, Blood Kink, Dacryphilia, Date Rape, Gross, Humiliation, Knifeplay, M/M, Nasty Undies Hour, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV First Person, Spanking, Spit Kink, Underwear Kink, Watersports, Wetting, Whorephobia, compensated dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 00:30:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18839944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: The legalization of "compensated dating" in England leads to a man revisiting his old ways.





	/enko girl

**Author's Note:**

> predictably im horny for greasy rat man
> 
> i always write/draw billy with way longer hair than he actually has and i really just dont care anymore
> 
> title is shared with a Nashimoto-P song that fuckin SLAPS

"Compensated dating" was a term and concept created in Japan many, many years ago. It refers to people, mostly young girls, who are paid to go on dates with older men. It was often carried out in telephone clubs, with the girls' photos laid out in a book like they were prostitutes, ripe to be chosen by whichever man steps in. Now, of course, it was nothing sexual, they'd usually just go get lunch or do karaoke. Implication or not, the girls weren't to do anything erotic with their customers, though presumably many of them ended up in such situations by force.

Now as I'm writing this, it's a mere year after the alleged "cat-woman killer" was jailed, and the story I'm about to tell took place only but last night. As said killer was also charged with a count of rape, finally the government tried to come up with some sort of idea to cut down on the sex crime. Now, the legalization of prostitution is not in our grasp, not even near it, but they did put that concept under consideration for a short while. After all, maybe if one could buy sex on every corner, no-one would need to force it. This was vetoed, of course, because whoring is a filthy job for filthy people and nobody would even dream of signing off on that. I'm not sure how they transitioned from there to the realm of compensated dating, but the connection is at least a bit obvious.

The rate of single men has risen quite a bit since last generation. Most younger men in particular prefer to be lone wolves, only interacting with women for sexual purposes. Marriage rates have lowered significantly, which oddly enough, isn't much of a worry for anyone important. However, it does leave the issue of not having one's romantic and emotional needs met, and this so-called "emotional blockage" is, according to hack government scientists, what has led to a society of rogue juveniles who commit acts of rape and murder for fun.

In reality, I'm certain this choice was made to keep sex crimes centered around these "enko girls", as they're called. This way, the law can turn their nose at most of them and pin it on the victim, claiming they should've known what they were getting into. So, these compensated dating agencies were built into places like bars and clubs, and any man could mosey upstairs and pick up a fresh piece of meat. Now it was required to show ID, as they could only give underaged workers to equally underaged patrons. Of course men in their early 20's at times could pass with a fake ID, but it becomes more and more difficult as time goes on.

This is where I come in, a few months after the law has been passed. Now, when I was young, I myself was a bit of a criminal. Me and my friends got up to all that "ultra-violence" stuff back when it was called what it really is -- gang-rape and assault. No putting pretty little nicknames over it, it was what it was. Of course, young boys and the like are, deep down, terrified of being branded as rapists and murderers, which is why they came up with that god-awful nadsat slang, no doubt. Sooner or later, every man has to straighten out and fly right, so now comfortably in my early thirties, I've been working a surprisingly lucrative desk job. I've been recently promoted, mind you, to the vice-manager of the wing, which is an awful made-up term. However, I got a fat pay raise and was excited for the future, for once, as adulthood feeds nihilism like a feeder does for a bird.

It'd been many years since I'd done anything one could consider illegal. In fact, I'd been as good a man as the law wants. Which is dull, boring, dare I say. With a new job title and a fair amount of disposable income on my hands, I decided now was as good a time as any to indulge a little bit. As most men, I'd always been more partial to girls, but that wasn't to say I'd never played for both sides before. In fact, I'd gotten the blood of a rather pert classmate on my hands when I was in high school, when I fucked him over a desk. However, that is a story for another day.

I honestly loathe the Korova, it's a painting of society's degeneration from outside to in. No, I prefer a much smaller spot simply named The O-Den, which is exactly what it is. Not calling it "vellocet" or anything like that. The smoke and low light, it all just feels very real to me. They'll sell you pills and powders and all sorts of things there, so long as you're over eighteen. This is where I got my weapons of choice, one being some sort of downer you're intended to take in small increments, and the other a rather potent sex drug. The man told me not to use too much of the former, as it could cause the limbs to go jellylike for several hours. That sounded alright by me.

The upstairs was a compensated dating industry of workers only eighteen or older, though usually they didn't have one past the age of twenty-two. I stepped up to the desk and began flipping through the book of workers they had. Now the girls already bored me, I'd seen women like them on every block in the city. Underweight sluts with dyed hair and far too much make-up on. Most of the men were, as well. In fact, they were all relatively feminine. It wasn't until I flicked to the last page that I saw him.

Now the first most noticeable thing was his hair. Long and black, and incredibly messy. It didn't look very well cared-for. This thicket of hair ran down to his arse, where it was all split ends on split ends. Every worker's photo was taken in their underwear, just so you could really get a good look at what you were dealing with. This one's whole body was dappled in patches of hair, which ran up his arms and legs, as well as just a tiny bit on his chest. His chin had the lovely first breaths of stubble on it, and the underside of his stomach was decorated with a deep-colored happy trail that crawled beneath the waistband of his briefs. (Which I would soon learn did not actually belong to him, and were borrowed because his actual underwear was far too nasty for advertisement.) Regarding body shape, he was a bit chubby on all fronts, standing pigeon-toed his thighs still stuck together. His stomach poured out just a little bit over his waistband, and his chest was just soft enough to almost mimic a blooming set of breasts.

He had a cold, dead stare, dark-eyed and covered in sweat, his face decorated in blotchy skin. His nose was pointed, and just a bit wide. Though his lips were, arguably, his best trait, as they were full and pink, they were the only thing standing before what appeared to be a mishmash of jagged teeth. Dark circles hung below his eyes, his brows full, furrowed and even slightly connected in the middle. In the corner of the photo, it was written that he was eighteen as of October 12th of last year, and still well in his prime. 

Now why I was drawn in by such an ugly sack of flesh may seem foreign to you, however, I've been around the block many a time before. It's been years since I had any interest in scrawny post-nymphets with fat lips and false tits, or for that matter, lithe fem-boys whose eyelashes are no doubt longer than their oft-pierced dicks. Which isn't to say I'm attracted to twenty-stone megaliths that could snap my spine in half, no, just something a bit more unconventional. So I rung up the woman at the desk, a tanned miss in her mid-to-late forties with the most gaudy earrings you can possibly imagine. I pointed to my choice cut.

"I'd like him, please." The woman gave me a look like I'd just turned into a monkey and shat on the desk, but didn't verbally question me.

"Alright, how long."

"Well, since it's rather late, I figure I'll let him stay with me overnight and then bring him back tomorrow?" If it were anyone else, I'm sure she wouldn't have let me do that, but clearly this last-page boy wasn't making her much money, so an all-night bill for him of all people was no doubt of interest. She nodded and stepped through the curtain in the back, and then, by the sound of it, up another flight of much creakier stairs. Mere seconds of incomprehensible yelling later, and she was back.

"He'll be ready for you in just a second." She began writing something down on a clipboard, probably keeping track of how much I had to pay. Then more footsteps from the back, and out came the angel of absolute filth himself. He wore some sort of military jacket and cap, as well as combat-boots and a neat-looking set of army pants. The badges he wore on his lapel were either fake, or stolen. He stared at me, flatly as a dead person would. "Billy!" The woman at the register shouted at him. "Show some goddamn manners for once in your life, this is one of the few people who actually wants to interact with you!"

"Piss off, ya wet spunk-towel!" He shouted at her, in a coarse and somewhat nasal voice. Then turned back to me. When he introduced himself, he couldn't have sounded more bored. "Hello, my name is Billy Porter, me droogs call me Billy-Boy, I'm very glad to spend time with you..." He yawned, and I could see his left-right-crooked teeth all pointing in different directions, as if they weren't sure which way to grow in. "What do y' wanna do tonight."

"Well, actually," I leaned in on my knee. "I was wondering if there was anywhere in particular you wanted to go. Don't worry, I'll pay." Billy cocked a brow, then shoving his pudgy hands in his pockets and staring at the ceiling for a minute. Though I already knew what the answer would be.

"Korova Milk Bar?"

Yes, of course. The young ones love that place, don't they.

"I can do that. Let's go." I finally stood, towering over him. It felt good to be in control of something so small, filthy and meaningless, though why it did I couldn't tell you. I held out a hand, and he begrudgingly took it, his palms sweaty or oily or possibly both. The distance from The O-Den to the Korova wasn't particularly big, though it was a bit cold out. I drew Billy in close to my hip, pressing him close to my side, and for a moment he attempted to pull back before realizing it was nice and warm with your fellow man. "So, tell me about yourself a bit."

"Uh?" He balked, dumbly looking at me. "Why?"

"Because I want to know, that's why."

"Eh, uh..." He visibly struggled to even think of what to say. A nasty, socially-awkward moron, I may very well have been in love. "...Me name's Billy Porter, 'm born in Stoke-on-Trent, I got moved 'ere by, uh, I was eight or nine...?"

"What do you like to do?"

"Erm, read, I guess?" Ah, he must've been another one of those kids. The violent ones. Of course, he didn't want to tell me his favorite pastime was sexual assault and robbery, he was most likely embarrassed and frightened of himself. "I play a guitar sometimes, too. I own a dog, 'is name's Bartholomew."

"Well that's nice. What sort of dog is he?"

"I don't bloody know, I 'in't ask 'im."

"You must have some idea."

"Nawr." He drawled. "I found 'im, outside some old domy of someone-er-another."

Deep down, he was the typical sort of boy his age, slurring in slang and loving old things like the weighty army boots he wore. The only difference being that he was clearly a bit dimmer and grimier than the lot of them. Turning my gaze a bit, as he wasn't looking anyway, I could see he had a nice, thick buttock. Absolutely beautiful, one of the most beautiful men I'd ever seen. Michelangelo couldn't have sculpted better, Raphael couldn't have painted better. An acquired taste, like hakarl, or century eggs.

We arrived at the milk bar and immediately Billy tossed his cap into one of the chairs to claim it, unceremoniously shoving someone away from one of the many legged-and-titted dispensers to get some of his own. The two had a particularly loud argument, Billy got decked in the face, and then figured maybe he should just wait his turn like a normal person. Red river sprung from his nose like a faucet, and he looked remarkable, hunched over by the freakish statue, holding a glass and scowling. Finally he took his fill, two parts vellocet and one part drenchrom, then sitting down beside me and taking a long sip.

This would be a perfect chance, if any, to add a little fairy dust, which is what I did.

"Billy, could you possibly go ask someone about changing the music in here? I just find it rather heavy."

"Hm? 's what they always play."

"Well, I just don't like it much, at least ask them to turn it down a little." By all means, it wasn't very loud, but Billy complied regardless. He stood up, leaving his drink on one of the many obscenely female-shaped tables and walked off for a moment. From there I tore open the two little packets of dissolving powder I was given and emptied them completely into the glass. As soon as it'd kick in, no doubt he'd be left wholly incapacitated, and pliant.

He returned after a few minutes.

"They said no, they 'aven't got no control over whass playin' er 'ow loud it is."

"Ah, well, that's fine, I suppose." Then he asked my name, and I gave him a false one, to avoid any serious repercussion after the night ended. As he drank from the tall glass, I had this feeling of overwhelming excitement, like I'd just done some amazing thing. He had no idea, the poor, stupid thing.

"What'n you wanna do after 'm done."

"I was just hoping to bring you to my home so we can enjoy one another's company."

"Yeh, we jus' can't go in-out." 

"I know." Not that it would stop me from trying.

"'ow far's your domy anyway?"

"Not very, within walking distance for sure." Billy nodded, licking milk off of his upper lip.

"Want some? 's moloko plus, gives a good rush."

"No thank you." If it was just milk-plus, I may have had a little, sure, but not the way it was now. "I prefer my substances on their own, no additives or anything like that. I suppose I'm a bit vintage that way."

"Suit ya'self." The bottom of the glass became visible, and Billy sat it on the table. "Roight, les' go."

"You don't have to put that back or anything, right?"

"Nawr, those ratty sookas who clean 'em tables take care of it. Good nochy, ladies!" He shouted the last part across the bar, to a few uniformed women who avoided making eye contact. Then we walked back out into the cold, and this time he clung to my hip by choice, breathing vapory puffs into the air. "I got poor 'eat retention."

"Do you, now?"

"Yeh, fuckin' hate the weather 'ere. Gets me bloody buds all 'ard in me jacket!"

"Y-" I coughed a bit. "Your nipples."

"Duh. 's the soddin' pits. Makes ya remember 'ow it feels wit' yer platties rubbin' up on yer skin, all rough-like."

Christ, the kid was just begging for it at that point. May as well have ground up on my leg and told me to fuck him.

We returned to my flat within the hour, and I walked him upstairs. He seemed wholly impressed with the place, no doubt much cleaner and nicer than anything he was used to, and he crawled onto my couch, tromping on my carpet in his boots.

"Do you want me to hang up your jacket and hat?"

"Sure." He took off his army coat. Underneath was a t-shirt for some old death metal band with an incomprehensible logo. I hung his things by the door and sat down next to him, where he was flicking through the books I had piled on my table. "Woof, check out the groodies on 'at one." He pointed at a photo of an ancient Aphrodite sculpture. "I'd like to pound 'er into the pavement, I would, an 'orrorshow plott she got, yeh?"

"Indeed. Did you know that even gay men were attracted to that statue in its time? People even tried to have sex with it."

"Hah! Idiots." He thumbed through a few more pages. "You study art?"

"I did in college. Now it's more of a hobby." I leaned back a bit, to let the boy at ease. "Feel free to look as long as you want." Billy grinned, he probably hadn't seen most of this stuff before, the classless swine he was. He snickered at the bared cocks of the statues, a snorting, porcine laugh. However, as time went on he quieted down a bit. Then I noticed the way his eyes had glazed over, and the redness of his forehead. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Ah, uh..." He tried to speak, but it just came out as weird noises. "I-I needa go t' the loo real quick." He slurred, as if drunk. But no, he was much worse than simply drunk. He weakly placed the heavy book back on the table, grabbing the edge of his shirt over what was clearly a clothed erection. It was absolutely magical.

"Oh, dear me." I put my hands on his cheeks, feeling the way warmth pooled under his skin. "I thought you said you had poor heat retention, your flesh is absolutely ablaze." He attempted to respond, but all that came out was a groan, as if he really were ill and experiencing some godawful headache. His bangs clung to his sweat-moist face, and he looked beautiful, so ruined already, when I'd barely even touched him.

"I needa go 'ome... I got some well fierce bolnoy, methinks." 

"Hm? Do you now?" Finally, I closed in, and gave him a kiss. Our tongues touched, flicked against one another, I could feel the way his crooked-fence teeth bent, and small vibrations whenever he made a sound. We parted, and saliva hung from his open mouth.

"I said I..." He puffed, attempting to kick at me, but his limbs no doubt felt heavy and he couldn't do much of anything other than tap my arm with his toe. "Poli- policy states, no, uh, no goin' in-out with our workers, we... We are not a brothel." He swallowed. "Me goobers 'r all numb..."

"Do you think I really just wanted to go out with you? When you have such a wretched personality?" Billy furrowed his brow at the statement, attempting to at least get up onto his elbows, but his infant-weak arms slipped uselessly along the couch cushions."I wanted a hole, and you have one, so there we go."

"I'm gonna kill you." His threat was not much of one, I had trouble believing I'd die at the hands of what I could only describe as a "military-grade pudding pop". With my sewing supplies was a pair of scissors, which I used to cut his t-shirt clean in half, despite his lilting protests about how it was "expensive" and "collectible". His chest was even more beautiful than I could imagine, and hot as if he really were sick. My fingers ran down the surface of it, skin apparently so sensitive that he shuddered at the slightest touch. I thumbed at one of his nipples, which were hard as small rocks, and he made a noise similar to a cat getting stepped on.

"Does that feel nice? You fucking animal." I breathed right up in his ear, and he reeled back, squeezing his eyes shut. "You came to my home and didn't expect me to try and fuck you? You'd have to be as dense as steel."

"Ge' off me, I'll ki... Shit..." His breath was heavy, it no doubt weighed on his lungs like he were exhaling solid titanium, and only got heavier as my hands moved downward. His gut was soft, and he let out a yelp when I pressed a palm into it. "Desist!", he shouted, but his limbs would no longer make a single motion, nothing more than slight twitches. Then I approached the waist of his military-green bottoms, held shut by a belt and a zipper. He was hard enough to make a tent in his trousers.

"Don't tell me to stop when you're this shamefully erect." I ran a single finger along the height of it, which apparently transferred even through two layers of clothing. He arched into the touch, fully unintentionally, as any voluntary muscle movement didn't seem to be happening anymore. 

"You- you drugged me, you  _rat shit_." 

"So I did." The belt of his was weighty, leather, and I undid it before resting it by my side. "Wearing that was a mistake, wasn't it? Now I'll have to beat you with it, won't I?" My words were met only with strangled, phlegm-choked whimpers. "Nobody else would ever agree to have sex with you anyway. That's why you, no doubt, resort to all that 'ultra-violence' bullshit, because as far as consensual sex goes, you're as virgin as the Madonna."

"Shut up, I done... I had it..."

"What? You've had fully agreed-upon sex before? Without having to wrestle the poor girl onto your mattress?"

"Please stop, stop askin' me questions, I'll- I'll ring 'em bruiseboys, and then, they'll..." He hiccuped. Probably after realizing that being pitied by police would in fact be wholly impossible considering his track record. The pads of my fingers reached the discolored crotch-zip, which I pulled down to reveal a sliver of discolored underwear. He could probably see me cocking a brow at him. "Me- me neezhnies, they don't, uh, can't do a whole lotta cheestin', because... water doesn't..."

"Can'd you lads talk in English anymore?" I tutted, just a bit. "This freakish Russian language-fusion, it's a bit silly, don't you think?"

"...Skitebird." was his only response. Of course, he then devolved into squealing from his hog-mouth once my thumbs met the waist of his trousers, working them out from underneath him to his knees, where I then undid his weighty boots, ignoring the sound of him pleading and babbling at me. This left his little black socks, which I left alone. After all -- poor heat retention. Didn't want his toes to go cold. The shoes and pants were cast aside on the floor, and finally I got to see the final layer, which really was something, for lack of a better word.

Presumably he'd been rambling something about laundry, because his underwear was filthy. I considered myself lucky, in fact, that they weren't lined with fecal skid-marks. They were, however, a dull, faded yellow color. Urine. They smelled something fierce, too. He'd visibly been dripping pre into them, as shown by a small, but still wet stain around where the tip of his penis would be. (Which judging by its outline, was best described as a 'chode'.)

"Did you piss in these?"

Billy choked on air, looking like he couldn't even focus on me anymore. "Come on. Answer me or I really will have to lash you, honest-to-god." He was speechless, if he were fully in control of himself right now, he'd probably cover himself like an anxious schoolgirl. But as it was, his mouth hung open in a droning "ah, ah, ah," as his pea-brain was probably shutting down like a crashing computer, blue screen and all. "Well. This is your fault, then."

I hooked an arm under his back, throwing him nigh-effortlessly over my lap, where his arms dangled in odd places and positions of all sorts. I allowed his legs to dangle towards the floor, as it would allow the skin over his arse to remain taut, which allowed it to be a fair amount more painful. He gurgled and trembled, his hard penis now pressing against my leg. No doubt he could feel mine as well, jutting into his side, but he didn't comment on it. The way he looked, and no doubt felt, was just so beautifully, artfully pathetic. I lifted up his heavy head with one hand, so I could see his foggy, weepy eyes and the way they'd squeeze shut when something bad happened. With the other, I took his (probably) false-leather belt, holding two ends in one hand so that it looped. A weapon of a much more manageable size.

"I'm an adult, you bloody bastard, you can't soddin' treat me like this." Despite being drugged, he still ran his mouth quite well.

"Then act like one, why don't you." I reached for his briefs, which were yellow-stained all the way to the back, and tugged them down to the backs of his thighs. Most of his dick was still trapped inside them, though. I imagined it looked a tad strangled down there. Merely ghosting over his fiery skin, he could still just barely feel it, oversensitive and needy and dribbling into his underwear as if he hadn't been touched in years. "This is a urine stain, definitively, so is it yours?"

"I, uh, no! No, of course not." His lie was obvious, but I figured I'd string him along just a bit more for my own personal entertainment. "I'm grown, I said."

"Then whose is it?"

"Bartholomew."

"Ah, yes, the dog, was it?" I pinched a little of his left cheek, which made him cry out, and I could feel the vibration in my other palm as it hummed in his trachea. "How odd is it that he did so right on the crotch of your underpants, awfully peculiar, don't you think?"

"Euh..." He swallowed, and his Adam's apple bobbed in my palm as he did. 

"I don't like how you take me for an idiot." The belt made a hard and satisfying cracking sound on his skin, turning the red even redder, and when it snapped against his flesh he howled in pain and bit down on my finger. It didn't hurt much, and really was my fault for putting my hand so close to his mouth. I shook it off before grabbing a fistful of his tar-black hair and holding his face forward that way. His hiss was beautiful, as much as all his other noises. "I won't stop until you tell me."

"Go drink paint!" Another crack, that left another searing red strip over his arse. Billy's voice cracked when he shouted, and I could just barely see a bit of drool falling from his dumb, open maw. "Quit- quit tolchockin' me, you--!" Well, presumably, I did the thing he was asking me not to do. Another beautiful crack that made his whole body shudder. His little nosebleed from earlier had all but gone away, but now as he was unable to wipe it off, it dripped over his upper lip and onto those pale-yellow teeth of his. By now tears were really starting to fall, forming fresh in his frightened eyes and trickling down before getting caught within the wispy hairs on his chin.

"You've got an awful attitude. I bet your mother must hate to have you around." Billy opened his mouth to reply, no doubt with more slanderous language, but another hasty whip with the belt turned his words into a high whine. I didn't even give him a chance to catch his breath before lapping again two times against the over-sensitive spot where I'd hit last, he crowed with torn voice, only able to hope someone might hear him. (Which wasn't going to happen.)

He still wouldn't speak up, however. Of course, I knew it was his fault his undergarments looked like that, but by god, I wanted to hear him say it. So I hooked my palm beneath his throat, careful as I could, and suddenly grabbed hold. He wasn't fully strangled, however, it surely did make breathing just a little more difficult. He puffed shallowly and I lashed him once more, and saliva was absolutely spilling from his mouth, face snotty and teary and sweaty. His tongue hung out, as if it would help him with gasping in little mouthfuls of air as he was, and he looked like a panting dog as he did so. A sweet, fuzzy little thing, indeed. One more hit before I released the grip on his throat. "Well?"

"I..." He swallowed. "Uh, sometimes I guess, I get... real pyahnitsa, and I--" I cut him off with another hit. All I wanted was for him to get to the point. "I wet the bed, alright?! I'll- I'll go, go to sleep wearin' me platties and..." He sobbed, shot in the heart psychologically. After all, how was I supposed to see him as strong or even mature with such information? As I moved to lay him back on the couch, I realized the stain on his briefs had grown substantially.

"Did you cum while I was beating you?" He bawled like an infant, turning his head in a meek attempt to hide his face. "Come on, you don't want me to do it again, do you?"

"...Yes..." He sniffled, and I gently wiped his eyes for him with my thumb. His face was so hot and wet and pliable, I'd have fucked his mouth if I wasn't certain he'd bite down. Maybe in another world, another universe, I'd have been able to. Frankly a dentist had ought to just pull them all out anyway, they're all placed like they're running away from each other. And so sensitive, his head rolled over into my palm, and I could feel his burning breath on my wrist. "I promise I wo- I won't tell nobody, I wanna go home..." He was reduced to the lowest point possible, weepy and afraid and so delightfully honest.

I finally pulled his briefs all the way off, until they dangled from his ankle. 

"Do you carry weapons with you?" His breath audibly caught in his throat, but he knew better than to not answer.

"I carry a nozh." I smacked him across the face, and his mewl was like music to my ears. "A knife! It's a knife! I'm sorryyy..." A pat on the cheek seemed to calm him at least temporarily, while I stepped away to check the pockets of his jacket. He kept many things, really. A few sticks of chewing gum, some money, a box of cigarettes, an empty flask, and a whole lot of dust. Finally, the knife, a switchblade with a black handle. Immediately when I brought it out, Billy made a little sob. "Don't kill me!"

"I won't, I won't. Can't hide your lardy corpse anywhere." A sigh of relief left his lips. I placed myself between his legs. His dick was small, and fat, so I proudly unclothed mine and pressed it against his, dwarfing it immediately. "The girls you've raped must not feel  _too_ bad about it, huh."

"What, where... You gonna..."

"I'm going to fuck your arse, how dense are you?"

"I-it won't fit."

I pinched his little cheek, which visibly caused a tremor through his bones. Every centimeter of him an erogenous zone, every bit oversensitive and warm. I stuck my fingers to his lips, and he looked confused.

"Suck them. If you bite I really will kill you." He complied the moment death was mentioned, wrapping his shaky, rosebud lips around both digits and lazily lolling his tongue over them. I fingered his uvula for just a moment, relishing in the frightened jump of his throat and mouth, but I didn't want him to vomit on me. I only wanted the little gaspy dry-heaves to rock his body and hurt his ribs, wearing him down further. Then I withdrew. "Good." He looked so docile, compared to the headstrong savage I brought out of The O-Den with me. My finger met the pulsating, twitching ring of his arsehole, and circled the pucker before dipping in.

Billy's hips jerked forward in response, his muscles and nerves confused by drugs and sex. Precum beaded on his dick-tip and dribbled over onto the lip of his peeled-back foreskin. The second finger followed, and his voice hitched, cracking and wavering like his own little birdsong. I curled them inside of him, and the moment I found his prostate he squealed and huffed, his mind was probably all mixed-up and confused.

"Do, do it again!" He shouted. Most likely, the fear broke down into acceptance, and he resigned himself to gaining pleasure from the occasion. In spite of that, he was still crying, these fat, silvery tears that ran down his chubby cheeks. Once again I pressed that spot, and his waist and abdomen practically jumped out of place, he coughed, sputtered and gurgled. Spit bubbled from his mouth and dripped, his chin tipped down so it all landed between his fat-sunken collarbones. And as much as I loved seeing him sex-drunk and stupefied, pain is what I get off on, and I wanted to even pierce through the most final of mental walls he could set up.

Fingers still buried in him, I withdrew the knife. He stared at it. 

"Have you ever hurt anyone with this?"

"Uhh, uhh, yeh..." He snorted a bit of blood back into his nose. "Me an' ol' Alex, we got into real big drats, and that was mine... I cut 'is suspenders wit'em once." A smiling recollection of a long-gone memory. I pressed the blade to his chest, which immediately altered his expression. "...'s, eh, 's real sharp."

"Is it?" I turned it onto one of the sharp edges, drawing it down between his soft pectorals. He hissed and wheezed, his pelvis still twisting around my fingers. "Oh dear me, it is." The little shudders his body was making could be felt through the couch, just barely. Another line, and he made a small mew, a lost kitten in the rain with no mother to speak of. They bled, beauty and horror, beading little drip-drops that looked like scarlet pearls. I finally pulled my fingers out, wiping them off on his bleeding chest.

"Stings!" Billy shouted, but he barely even trembled. I almost wished he'd be drugged and malleable forever. I almost wished I could keep him. The small package of lube in my back pocket was slathered over the surface of my dick, and I pressed my cockhead on his needy little hole. He made a noise like a strangled crow. "It's not- not gonna fi'!" Fucking moron. If it'd fit in a pussy, it'd fit in him. And it did, with a sick little popping sound, and whatever noise he attempted to make was so high his voice broke into a rasp. As if he was being strangled mid-word, or something similar. I grasped what remained of that ghastly death metal tee, which he still seemed awfully morose about, and pushed forward into him. I buried myself to the hilt in one thrust. I'd never seen a man look more confused than the one right before me.

I pulled his legs over my shoulders, and his feet hung pointed outwards, legs limp as though he were merely asleep. Visibly, Billy's single-cell mind was attempting to make sense of how anything got  _so far up there_ , and he gazed downward with his eyes moving back and forth as if trying to perform mental math. I was almost tempted to ask how it felt, but without a shred of doubt, he'd simply answer with more hemming and hawing and idiot mumbling. His body spoke more than his mouth did anyhow, and the red-tipped erection spoke a whole novel's worth. Poor bastard stuck out far below average where it mattered. My hands slip-slid down to his hipbones, which were well-buried in thigh fat. A perfect leverage to grab onto. Even sinking my thumbs in, he made a squeaky-toy sound, and rolled his head back. (Seemingly the only part of his body that would move, along with that god-awful mouth of his.)

"Now I'm going to move," I got my face somewhat close to his. Emotional turmoil ran rampant in his eyes. "and if you give me any lip, I'll slit your fat gut in half and feed your guts to my neighbor's cat, I don't want to hear a damn word from you. Nod if you understand me." He swallowed, eyes moist and glimmering, and nodded. Of course, I had no intent on killing him, as murder was far more trouble than it was worth. But I knew he believed me, and that was really all that mattered. "Good boy." I gave him a gentle pat on the cheek. 

I gave a single test thrust, punching deep into him and feeling the way his nervous guts held tight to my skin. He bit his lip to avoid even making a peep, his jagged teeth making indentations above his chin that were pale red. Another, and he seemed to choke on his own spit. "You're allowed to make noise, just not to speak. Don't go biting your tongue off now." He seemed apprehensive, but I pressed into him at just the right angle and he made a sudden "gaaugh" sort of sound, like he'd just been kicked in the side really hard. I still wielded the little knife, which he kept looking at nervously, as if I would stab him at any second. Then I moved into a steady motion.

The noises he made, for lack of a better word, made it sound like he was driving on a very bumpy rode. A rhythmic "AaAaAaAa" that went high when I went in, and low when I tugged out. He was tight, one of the tightest I think I've had. I'd be shocked if he'd even gotten a finger in there, that's how much I mean. It almost felt like he was trying to force me out, to strangle me, his rectum the only muscle in his body that could think anymore. I pressed one hand to his chest, holding the knife up in the other as I fucked him. Beauty, the look in his storm-grey eyes, when I drew the sharp edge to the space just below one of those fatty faux-tits he had and cut a shallow line as if preparing a mastectomy. And I could feel his reaction, in every inch of him, even from the inside. I made several small cuts in him, not particularly discriminant about where I did, and his cock didn't wilt a bit. In fact, it dripped in clear. He tightened, twitched and convulsed, probably nearing a second orgasm in spite of himself. And I was right, as he cried out and spat another white cumshot out, this one arcing and sticking to his soft stomach. It caught in his body hair.

"Am-" He whined, sniffled, and gasped. "I can't anymore-" So I asked him,

"What did I  _say_ about giving me  _lip?"_

His eyes were wide and he blubbered, uncertain whether to apologize or go quiet. Now as I said, I had no intention of killing him, but I did figure some sort of punishment was in order. His underwear had fallen aside onto the floor, so I took them. They'd dried by then, into a crusty cumstain that would never come out no matter how hard he'd try. Billy could see me, thinking, contemplating, and he clearly didn't like it, so in spite of himself he opened his damn dirty mouth once more.

"I'm sorry, I jus- I don't know whass' goin' on anymore, an', I..." Without any words left, he burst into violent sobs, sobs so violent they shot tremors through him. I could feel it, I could feel him crying all the way on my dick. A weeping so strong that it made sex better, it sounds completely ridiculous in words, I recognize, but nonetheless it was as true as true can be. I shoved his underwear in his mouth, and he didn't seem to have any intention of spitting them back out. (Though judging by his expression, the small wrinkle of his nose, I'd have a hard time believing it was a very good experience.) Instead he simply hiccuped over the filth-saturated fabric. I returned to entertaining myself.

And suddenly I thought, as I was fucking poor, weepy Billy,  _I'd love to carve something into him_. It'd scar, by god, and I wanted it to. What could I write? 'Slut' was the obvious, but it seemed a bit on-the-nose for my liking. After all, I am as much an artist as I am a criminal. 'Pig', in the style of Charles Manson, also crossed my mind. And as much as I'd love to advertise his humiliating life secrets, 'Bedwetter' was a tad wordy. I ran through hundreds of thousands of options before finally coming to my answer. (Of course, whilst deep in thought I still rammed into him, I could hear the skin-slapping in the back of my head as I did.)

I held the knife like a pen, and it reflected the light from my ceiling all too well. He was just lucid enough to shut his eyes and brace for impact, making a nasty fabric-sucking noise as he did. Poor agitated thing, he nursed on his own clothing like he were an anxious infant. Were I more maternal, I'd have felt pity, for sure. And I began to slit into him, he made a long, high-pitched squeal and cried some more. It was all he knew how to do at this point.

"Hrrfhs," he mumbled. In seconds I grabbed his hair and smacked the back of his head against the couch's arm, he yelped and blinked all confused-like. Maybe I concussed him. No, I hope I concussed him. I really hope I did. 

"Don't complain at me when you still have an erection. It's childish. It's dishonest." There was a bit of blood dripping around my dick, I'd probably torn him somewhere, though it was nothing a little R&R couldn't fix. He whimpered, and whined, and whimper-whined, yes he did. I wrote into him, I wrote and wrote and wrote. With each bit of skin I carved, he would shudder and huff, agony and despair and arousal all burying his cro-magnon brain. Forcing him to think and feel and experience things. By then the little nosebleed he got earlier had long since stopped, but dried blood still clung to his sweaty upper lip.

I finally finished my work. Across his stomach, I wrote 'BITCH', a bit unoriginal, but wholly emasculating. "You're not gonna be able to fuck anyone with that written on you, huh?" He didn't have any idea what I was talking about. That was fine, he'd figure it out later when he looked in the mirror. I dove back into the open wounds to make sure they were deep enough to scar, and I could feel myself preparing for orgasm.

Leaning down, I wrapped my arms around him as if he were my wife. I fucked that boy as if we were trying for a baby, and he gurgled and coughed and spat all the way through. "I'm going to cum inside of you." The moment I said that, he cried out. But I could feel his hole tighten and he spat a final, weak spurt of jizz onto himself. The sight was so submissive that I couldn't hold back. I grabbed him tightly and slammed into him, once, twice, and there it was. I blew my load inside of him and he squealed, he sounded like I really did kill him. Shrieking and keening and all, as I pushed it up into his oversensitive guts, probably irritated and swollen and tired.

Finally, I pulled out. There he laid, Billy Porter, Billy-Boy as he was known by some, beautifully defiled. As a last moment of weakness, he did what he apparently was best at. Urine, warm and yellow, shot over onto his open wounds and he mewed. It probably stung, but more notably, it dribbled between his legs and all over his thighs, seeping into my couch. (I just had the cushions cleaned, and they still smell a little.) Tears fell from his bloodshot eyes, bubbly and shiny. I tutted. "What a mess you've made."

"Dohh looghit bhee..." I gave him a kiss on his cheek, and took the underpants from where they hung out of his lips. He was still pitifully hard, even while pissing himself in front of a man who'd just assaulted him. I covered his dick with the underwear and allowed the rest of the urine to soak into them. That was my rag of choice, as he finished emptying himself I used it to clean off the blood and tears and cum. I even wiped his ass with them, which left strawberry-pink smears on his body, the red occasionally separating from the white as their densities argued. Then I dropped them next to him, as he'd probably be wearing them again tomorrow. Even though they were filthy, filthy, filthy.

"I'll take you back in the morning and pay, then." I stood up, not even bothering to tuck myself into my pants -- I'd just be changing back into my pajamas anyway. I left him there on my couch. "If you get hungry, the fridge is all yours." Then I headed off to bed and had some of the best sleep in my life. Nothing quite like good sex to wear a man out. It was a dark, dreamless sleep, and I woke up at around 10:30. Billy was back to normal, shoveling chocolate ice cream into his mouth and occasionally smearing it on my books out of anger. The moment he noticed my presence, he shakily stood up and dropped everything he was holding on the ground.

"Take me back to my domy  _now_." He scowled. His pants and boots were back on, presumably his underwear as well, and he'd thrown his jacket over the tattered remains of his shirt. "And gimme me nozh back." Ah, yes, I did still have that knife, didn't I. I handed the switchblade off to him, and he shoved it in his pocket. "You rotten skitebird. I hope you burn in hell."

"Nothing worse than ultra-violence." That statement only made him even madder, he shouted incomprehensible expletives before putting his cap back on and crossing his arms. "I have to return you to The O-Den, come on." I took his hand. He tried to pull it away, but I just wanted one final power trip. He was like a stubborn dog that didn't want to walk as I pulled him all the way back to The O-Den, he refused to even speak to me. At least, until about halfway there. 

"It's gonna scar." He grumbled.

"That's the idea."

"Stop holdin' me rooker!" His attempts to pull his hand away were met with no luck. He was like that all the way to The O-Den, where I approached the desk and found the same lady there, filing her nails. She looked up and waved at me.

"Welcome back. Was Billy any trouble?"

"No, not at all-" The moment I let his hand go he ran behind the curtain and up those creaky stairs. Her eyes followed him, and then she shook her head. 

"That boy brings  _me_ trouble all the time, let me tell you. Alright, let me see your credit card and then you can go."

"You think I could bring him out again sometime?"

"Oh, of course. Nobody ever wants him. You're I think maybe the second or third customer he's gotten in all this time."

"Well that's too bad. I think he's quite a catch."

Then I paid, returned home, so on and so forth. And now I'm here, relaying my erotic tale to you, dear reader, as I recount his staggering beauty. I might buy his time again, but that's to be seen. I figured someone else may enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed taking part in it, and that's all there is to say on the matter.

 


End file.
